


We Are Here

by suburbanmotel



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blow Jobs, Boys In Love, Boys Kissing, Cuddling & Snuggling, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Family, Fluff and Angst, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Kissing, M/M, Mutual Pining, Pack, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Touching, derek is touch starved, hand holding
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-07
Updated: 2018-10-07
Packaged: 2019-07-27 18:59:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,714
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16225304
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/suburbanmotel/pseuds/suburbanmotel
Summary: Derek is touch starved. Stiles has beautiful hands. And so it goes.





	We Are Here

**Author's Note:**

> Just a little something because it's Thanksgiving weekend here in Canadaland which means ~~too much~~ a lot of family time which also means not enough creativity/writing time for meee. Anyway. Happy reading :)

//

 

 _Touch has a memory._  
~ John Keats

 

//

 

“— and then he said, well what do you think I’m talking about, and I said, I have no clue because I wasn’t even listening in the first place—” Stiles is laughing like an idiot as he walks into the room, big, joyous laughter, full body involvement, snorting and hiccupping, hands flapping, chest convulsing, caught in the middle of some dumb story with Scott, one that is surely not nearly as hilarious as Stiles seems to think it is.

“You’re late,” Derek snaps, loud enough that everyone can hear. It’s not what he really wants to say but it’s what comes out regardless. What he really wants to say is _You’re pretty much the most adorable person I’ve ever laid eyes on and I’d kiss you senseless right now if you let me._

To Stiles. He wants to say that to _Stiles._

He doesn’t say it.

Scott looks at his phone. “No we’re not. Well not much at least.” He punches Stiles on the arm and Stiles mock winces. “And besides, it’s Stiles’ fault anyway. He _had_ to stop for a burger.”

“I was dying of hunger. Literally dying.” Stiles mock wilts.

Derek fights the urge to roll his eyes. “Idiot,” he says. He’s not even mad so he doesn’t know why these things come out of his mouth. “You weren’t literally dying. You were figuratively dying. Or, rather, overdramatising, as usual.”

Stiles slaps a hand to his chest in mock horror. He really is quite the actor. “You wound me, Derek. _Literally_.” Then he winks.

Derek keeps the meeting short and works very hard at not making eye contact with Stiles. Or thinking about Stiles. Or focusing on how good he smells tonight. He breaks up an argument between Erica and Scott about how to tackle the gnomes at the edge of the woods and tells Aidan to take his feet off the coffee table twice. All in all it’s a fairly productive evening and Derek feels pretty good about keeping everyone in check for the time being. He can tell Stiles isn’t really paying attention but when does he ever? And when does it ever hamper his overall abilities to help? Even when his mind seems a million miles away he is ingesting everything, every bit of information and storing it up for later. Because he’s just that smart.

Stop. Stop it.

He runs out of reasons to keep them all there, surrounding him, close, safe. Their scent and voices and nearness giving him a bit of comfort for a while. They start to trickle out, as they do, as the hours pass, and he tries to not say anything that will embarrass him, like no don’t go. Or, hey it’s still early. Or, anyone want to play Boggle? I have ice cream! Finally it’s just him and Scott and Stiles and Scott is arguing with him about something, again, always, of course, and Stiles is hovering on the fringes, not paying attention but paying attention, like always, eyes flickering back and forth and long fingers twitching at his sides at his hair at his _mouth_ dear god. Derek can’t tell if it’s because he wants to stay or if he wants to go it’s anyone’s guess but he hopes. He hopes.

“Anyway, we’re outta here,” Scott says at last, hands in the air like he’s given up because he thinks Derek is just that much of an ass and Derek’s throat closes up mid-snark. They’re leaving and it’s late and it’s dark out and it will be still and quiet and sometimes he likes that sometimes he _craves_ it but sometimes he longs for anything but. He stands in the middle of the almost empty room as Scott walks away, jangling his keys with authority. Stiles hovers between them, twitchy, lip biting, finger twisting, until Scott stops and turns and looks back, confused, like what the hell dude _let’s go_. And Stiles kind of shrugs like oh yeah. Ok. He kind of rushes forward to grab his phone off Derek’s kitchen table and Derek sighs and just waits for them to go.

And then.

“See ya later, big guy,” Stiles says quietly and as he passes by taps Derek lightly on the shoulder, _tap tap tap_ , fingers lingering just a bit longer on the last tap before dragging off. Derek can feel the heat of his skin through the thin material of his shirt and for a minute he swears it burns him. Stiles keeps walking like nothing happened, like nothing out of the ordinary has taken place and Derek is almost literally stunned into silence because it kind of hits him how few people just touch him like that, just put their hands on him so very casually for no reason other than. Well. For no reason at all.

And it’s a light touch but it comes from behind and it’s unexpected and Derek startles. He actually jumps and flinches like Stiles has plunged a _knife_ into his back or something instead of a stupid friendly ordinary gesture and because he jumps Stiles jumps too and then Derek feels his face go red and hot and Scott the asshole starts laughing.

“Whoa, Derek calm down, dude,” he says loudly. “It’s not like he bit you.” He laughs again, loud and Derek wants to punch Scott right now, more than usual even. Stiles is just watching him with quiet eyes and not saying a word. Just watching and actually paying attention like he does.

“Maybe you need to cut back on the caffeine a bit,” Scott says as he turns and heads for the door keys jangling merrily and outside and away and Derek goes even redder.

“Or maybe you just need to be touched more,” Stiles says. He murmurs it to himself, but Derek hears him of course and he looks up and meets his steady, quiet gaze and it looks like Stiles has made some kind of realization and with it a quiet resolution that Derek knows he won’t let go of easily.

Derek lets them go and then then cries a bit with real sadness as he wonders why he never really noticed this problem he has with touch.

Until now.

 

//

 

Derek’s family were all very tactile, so it’s not like he’s always lacked from simple, affectionate touch. His mom was big on hugs and she was good at them, warm enveloping, so so tight and always completed with a kiss to the cheek, or two.

His dad was a toucher, too, but not much of a hugger. He preferred back pats and shoulder squeezes and hair tousles. Laura liked to hug, but also liked to complement a hug with a pinch in a new and surprising location each time followed by another hug, tighter than the first, just to make up for it. Cora liked to cuddle, once upon a time. His grandparents, aunts and uncles and cousins all liked to embrace when they met up for noisy, rowdy holidays and Derek always gave back as good as he got. He liked being touched. He liked hugs, casual squeezes and brushes of fingers against skin. He liked it.

He likes it still. It’s just that these days no one touches him unless they either want to hurt him, or want something from him. Like sex, and these days even that is a rarity he’d rather not address.

So it’s not that Derek has forgotten what it’s like to be touched, exactly. It’s just when Stiles touches him, he can’t stop remembering.

 

//

 

He knew from the look on Stiles’ watchful face what he was planning, but it’s still a bit of a shock when the plan is put into full force action. Stiles is a touchy-feely type of person anyway, long limbs flailing and hands moving close, stroking, poking, grasping, squeezing. Feet, too, when he’s sprawled on couches or in the backseats of vehicles, stretching out, wiggling, tickling, but suddenly a lot of those touches are aimed directly at _him_. They’re not sneak attacks by any means but Derek can never quite anticipate, never quite prepare his body for what’s coming his way. He doesn’t understand it and he doesn’t want to ask because he doesn’t want it to stop and he starts making a list, a compilation of sorts, a mental record of all the places Stiles just touches him for no reason at all, it seems.

 

//

 

_**Right hand**_

“What are you doing?”

Derek starts and looks up. Stiles is watching him. He’s watching him with that Look. Derek has his finger in his mouth. He’s biting a fingernail, a throwback to unhealthy childhood anxiety coping habits. Stiles is watching him, face open and curious, and Derek feels guilty for some reason. He takes his finger out of his mouth. His mother hated it when he chewed his nails, but she knew why he did it. School issues. Bullying. Teachers. Insomnia. _Life_. “Such a sensitive boy,” she used to say, fingers in his hair, on the back of his neck. She brewed tinctures and coated the tips of his fingers with liquid, bitter and foul, designed to deter him. It didn’t. He just got used to the taste and kept going. His mother tried four different potions before she gave up, afraid of making him ill. She would take his ragged nail bitten fingers and kiss them, each wounded fingertip, every night before bed, and tell him how beautiful his fingers were and to leave them alone. After she died he would look at his fingers sometimes before bed and resist the urge to put his fingers to his mouth and kiss them.

“Derek,” Stiles says. Derek has a feeling he’s said his name more than once now. Derek makes a sound. He’s not sure what it means. He shakes his head. 

“Nothing.” He curls his fingers into his slightly sweaty palm. They’re sitting in Derek’s Camaro, waiting for Scott to emerge from the school. Stiles had come bounding out first and slid into the front seat, babbling about something but Derek didn’t engage and didn’t seem even vaguely interested when in reality he was _extremely_ interested and trying very hard to _not_ engage at all. Stiles stopped talking eventually and has been staring at Derek ever since which made Derek even more nervous and hence the nail biting.

Stop looking at me, he thinks. Stiles doesn’t stop looking.

“Let me,” Stiles says and then stops. “Here.” And then he’s reaching out, Derek knows he’s reaching out, he can sense it before he does it, his hand hovering, then reaching and touching, fingers closing around Derek’s wrist and tugging, gently but insistently, pulling his hand away from his stomach and up. Derek keeps his fingers tightly curled but Stiles keeps pulling and Derek just doesn’t have the energy or the resolve or whatever it is he needs to resist Stiles because it’s Stiles and yeah. Yeah.

Stiles pulls Derek’s bitten finger hand up and forcibly uncurls his fingers and peers down at them in the interior of the car and gently oh so gently touches them. Touches the tips of Derek’s fingers, the one bitten nail in particular, of course, he focuses in on that and Derek can feel his heartbeat ratchet up a thousand-fold but thank god Stiles can’t hear it but maybe he can feel it because his gaze snaps up to Derek’s face. Derek looks at Stiles, even though he really doesn’t want to.

Stiles turns the hand over in his own, cradling it in his palm. Stiles has big, beautiful, long-fingered hands and Derek has always been a little obsessed with them when he allows himself to think about Stiles at all.

“Human touch is really important,” Stiles says casually, like they’re just having a regular conversation. “Like, I don’t think most people understand it. Especially if they’re touched regularly.” He pauses. “But for people who _don’t_ get touched on a regular basis it.” He pauses again. “Well, they don’t _understand_.” He stops and shrugs and kind of sighs. “Anyway, it can help reduce anxiety and stress. Touching, I mean.” He looks down at Derek’s ragged fingernails again. “Sometimes nail biting has something to do with anxiety,” Stiles says, and he looks right at Derek again. Like right in the eye. Derek wants to scoff, wants to make some stupid remark but all he can do is stare at Stiles and he can feel Stiles’ hands on his hands, his skin on his skin and he can’t think of anything else at the moment. Stiles is touching him, touching his hand his fingers and Derek is finding it difficult to form a coherent sentence at this point.

“Yeah and sometimes it’s just a bad habit,” Derek says, and pulls his hand free at last.

 

//

 

_**Left hand**_

There’s an accident and Isaac is hurt.

Isaac, who’s already been so hurt so badly by someone who should have been looking after him. Derek’s heart hurts for Isaac and he’s tried so hard to make it better. And here’s poor beaten battered lonely Isaac trying his hardest to be a good pack member, to make everyone proud, make _someone_ proud for once in his life and he’s tried to make a stand tonight and protect his pack in the woods and he’s done well and Derek wants to let him know so badly exactly how well he’s done, but Isaac is currently unconscious and healing and Derek is fighting back both nausea and exhaustion and his own erratic heartbeat and wondering what the fuck he’s supposed to do with his ragtag team who rely on him to do _something_.

This is what happens:

He’s standing outside Isaac’s bedroom, just standing and watching, not sure what to do. He can smell his own fear and nervousness and he’s sure everyone else can, too. He just stands there, unable to make a decision about what to do. Should he go in and sit down and offer comfort? Should he just turn around and leave and trust that he’s going to be ok? He hovers there, paralyzed in indecision, and then he feels it. A hand, tentative, fingers circling his wrist and then sliding, gently, carefully down to take his hand and hold it. Long fingers grasping his and squeezing very lightly. Derek startles, but not too much, just a little and he glances over and Stiles is standing there staring straight ahead and he’s holding Derek’s hand in his. And suddenly Derek can breathe and he can think and he can _feel_ because Stiles’ warm smooth skin is pressed gently against his skin.

“He’s going to be ok,” Stiles says with a certainty Derek doesn’t feel in the least. But right now, holding onto Stiles’ solid, warm hand, all the bones and tendons and skin and nails against his own, against the doorway, against the strange mess of his life, he doesn’t feel completely hopeless either. He nods. Stiles presses a bit harder and he turns his head and looks right at Derek, and even though Derek can’t bring himself to look back he nods, and Stiles says quietly because it’s meant just for Derek:

“And you are, too.”

 

//

 

_**Face**_

Apparently nearly dying in the woods on a cold November evening for approximately the hundredth time warrants a drunken outing at a house party on the edge of town.

Scott texts him at 1 a.m. begging for help. Help with Stiles.

“What’s wrong with him?” Derek asks without preamble when Scott picks up on the first ring. Derek can’t be bothered to find out how serious the situation is through text.

“He’s wasted man and I can’t find my wallet. I think someone stole it! I have no money for a cab and I gotta get Stiles home. His dad’s gonna kill me.”

Derek doesn’t care if the Sheriff kills Scott and he might even participate, if he’s being honest, and his feet are hitting the floor before he even realizes he’s made the decision to drive to some undisclosed location to pick up a drunk teenager so he doesn’t get in trouble with his dad. The Sheriff, who, in the past, hasn’t always viewed Derek’s involvement with his son favourably.

He doesn’t think while he drives. He watches the darkness outside and the road ahead and he refuses to think about his life and the certain humans who populate it.

The house is pretty easy to find because every single light is ablaze and bodies litter the front lawn like gnome ornaments. Scott is waiting at the curb, hoisting a semi-coherent Stiles against his side and grinning hopefully when Derek slides up. Derek parks and jumps out of his car and runs around to the passenger side because for some reason he doesn’t trust Scott to do it himself and that is something he will examine much much later and not now.

“Thanks, man,” Scott says, breathless, wondering how mad Derek is. Derek glares at him full force and Scott has the intelligence to glance away. “I have a few other people to help get home so I appreciate this. Thanks for—”

Derek growls low in his throat, a warning to Scott who quickly and wisely passes the limp warm supple body of Stiles off to Derek who catches him and hauls him up close.

“Hey you,” Stiles says when he focuses a bit and realizes what is happening. He’s gazing at Derek with the _Look_ that makes Derek’s breath stutter in his chest.

“Stiles,” he manages to say without completely embarrassing himself. He moves quickly, maneuvers Stiles bodily into his car, buckles him up and shuts the door, carefully, making sure no loose limbs are dangling free. He takes a moment to steady himself, his breathing, his heartrate which is stupid because Stiles is not a werewolf, before getting in the driver’s side and starting the engine.

“What a party,” Stiles says. His head is lolling against the seat and he’s smiling faintly.

“Uh huh,” Derek says. He focuses on driving to distract himself from Stiles’ overwhelming scent which at the moment is a disgusting combination of beer, sweat and vomit, but underneath all that there’s something else: a gentle contentment and happiness and further beneath that, a strange nervousness. Excitement? A thrumming flutter of the heart, butterflies in the stomach, maybe. Derek really hopes Stiles doesn’t throw up in his car but then realizes he wouldn’t be mad if he did.

“You should have come.” Stiles is still talking. “To the party, I mean. Like, before now.”

“Uh huh.”

“You should get out more. Have some fun.”

Derek doesn’t dignify that with a response and takes the next corner too sharply. On purpose.

“I bet you can really dance. Move that body all over the place.”

Derek blushes in the dark and then sighs. “I really hope you don’t remember this conversation tomorrow.”

“Dancing releases a lot of pent-up stress.”

“I don’t have anything pent-up. I tend to vent pretty regularly.”

“You’re funny, Derek.”

“Uh huh.” Derek pulls up in front of Stiles’ house and hits the brakes a little harder than normal. Stiles jerks forward a bit then back. He doesn’t seem to notice.

“Oh!” Stiles says, like he just remembered. “You know what else releases stress?”

Derek holds his breath.

“Touch! I’ve been doing a lot of reading on this particular subject because I think it’s important to know and I’ve been wanting to tell you. It also can reduce blood pressure! And boost your immune system! Isn’t that cool?” He struggles to sit up straight and fails. He sighs and slumps in Derek’s general direction. “Anyway. Just for future reference.”

“Thank you,” Derek says, resisting a very strong urge to lean down and stick his nose in the top of Stiles’ head. Even though his hair is matted and damp he’s sure it smells like Stiles, all frenetic energy and sarcasm and want and Jesus he needs to go home.

“You’re welcome.” Stiles looks up. Then he reaches up and strokes the side of Derek’s face with three fingers, just once, lightly, from his hairline down past the front of his ear to his jaw and dropping away at the bottom of his chin. Derek just stares.

“What…are you doing.” He should be used to this by now but each time it happens it catches him completely off guard, a punch to the chest that makes him lose his breath for a second.

“Lowering your blood pressure, silly. You look like you’re about to have a stroke.”

“You look like you’re about to pass out.”

“I’m not—”

Derek is spared the I’m not _that_ drunk argument because the passenger door is ripped open and the Sheriff is reaching inside to grab his son.

“Thanks, Derek,” the Sheriff says, his voice loud, jaw set. “Scott let me know that you’d be bringing him home.”

“Oh hey Dad—” Stiles voice breaks off but he still manages to get one warm, slightly sticky hand on Derek’s for a quick squeeze before the Sheriff unceremoniously drags him from the car and up the walk. “Ok thanks for the drive it was fun Derek bye!”

With great effort Derek forces his heart rate to slow enough that he can drive home without going off the road.

 

//

 

_**Neck**_

Derek has a thing for necks. His neck, Stiles’ neck, necks in general. He’s always noticed people’s necks, the length and slope, pale or dark, tendons and muscles, how the skin moves when they talk and swallow and breathe. Stiles’ neck is a glory to behold and sometimes Derek finds himself staring and has to forcibly look away, walk away, do anything else to keep himself from leaping over furniture to get closer to it.

It’s Pack Night and Stiles has arrived early and alone, for some reason, and Derek is busying himself doing anything to keep from looking at Stiles who is wearing red plaid — Derek’s weakness — and he’s freshly showered and his neck is on full display and Derek is half-hard before he realizes it. He pushes up hard against his kitchen counter and thinks about roadkill.

“So, vampires,” Stiles says, apropos of nothing.

Derek turns and raises an eyebrow.

Stiles waves his hands. “I mean, that’s what we think might be running around in the woods right now, yes? Those last two attacks?”

“What are you talking about? What attacks?”

Stiles sighs. “Those two deer. Exsanguinated.”

Derek frowns. “Who the hell said anything about _vampires_?”

“Scott! Scott said something about vampires and you didn’t correct him so I thought maybe—”

“It’s not vampires,” Derek says. He tries to not roll his eyes as he also tries to remember the conversation. He remembers getting distracted by Stiles’ eyes and hair and Stiles in general which is why he might have missed Scott’s idiotic suggestion.

“Why not?”

“Because I’d know, Stiles. I’d know if vampires were in the woods.”

“But exsanguination,” Stiles says. “Necks and blood sucking and night prowling and all that.”

“Stiles—”

“It’s possible.”

“No it’s not and Scott’s an idiot for suggesting it. I don’t know why you listen to him, seriously. Listen to _me_.” Derek can hear his voice getting louder. It’s a combination of Stiles’ unnerving presence and Scott’s unending annoyance that’s sending him a bit over the edge. Stiles, of course, notices because his eyes go wide and before Derek can move away, Stiles leans over, quick as anything, and presses his face against the side of Derek’s neck, breathes in and breathes out, then pulls away a bit.

“Skin,” Stiles says, his voice low and strained. “Skin is really cool, right? Skin is the most extensive sensory receptor of the body, did you know that?” His mouth is still too close to Derek’s neck still. Stiles’ entire body is very close to Derek’s body and Derek can feel the heat of him, right through the maddening red plaid.

“I didn’t know that, no,” Derek says. His voice sounds funny, rough and uneven. Stiles leans in again and presses his face there, on the other side of Derek’s neck this time and just keeps it there, breathing.

“If,” Derek begins, keeping his voice steady with great, superhuman effort, “if you’re trying to reduce stress and calm me down with touch.” He stops. “This isn’t really the most effective way to go about it.”

He feels Stiles smile against his skin. “Maybe,” he says, and dear god his lips are moving there as he speaks. “Maybe I’m not trying to calm you down right now.”

And then the Pack arrives and Stiles manages to pull back just in time and Derek has to suddenly go to the bathroom before he starts the meeting.

 

//

 

_**Back**_

Some days he can’t get out of bed. It’s just too much effort and there’s no point because his life is his life and it’s stupid and pointless and he can’t always handle it.

Today is one of those days.

He smells Stiles before he hears him and for a moment he thinks he’s dreaming again, but a good dream for once. He smells like worry and concern and hormones and then Derek can hear his racing heart, elevated breath. Then the careful, oh so careful steps on the stairs, each one tentative, each one wondering if he’s doing the right thing, if he’s going to get into trouble, if he should just turn around and hightail it out of there before he gets growled or snapped at.

He doesn’t turn around and Derek hides a smile in his pillow when his bedroom door slides open.

“You ok, Derek?” Stiles hovers in the doorway. Derek can hear his heart skipping, his breath elevated, can _hear_ him chewing on his lower lip and the inside of his right cheek. “Erica said you were sick but like, I didn’t think werewolves could. You know.” His foot scrapes on the floor. And again. His indecision is interesting.

“Not sick. Exactly.”

“Oh.” Stiles moves closer, takes Derek’s words as a kind of invitation to engage more. “Anything I can do to help?”

Derek doesn’t even know how to answer that without sounding like a complete idiot so he just huffs into his pillow.

More hesitant steps, more indecision, then an intake of breath and shaky resolve.

Admirable.

Then he feels a hand. On his _back_. Stiles is touching his back. Warm broad hand resting in the middle of his shoulder blades and Derek is suddenly eternally stupidly grateful he left his T-shirt on when he fell into bed last night. Doesn’t matter though because when Stiles starts moving his goddamn hand up and down and in small circles he might as well be naked. He can feel everything all the heat right through the cloth and down to his bones. Stiles perches on the edge of the bed, hip butting up against Derek’s hip and keeps doing it. He keeps _touching_ like it’s completely normal and something they just do.

Well, in a way it is now, he supposes.

It’s still dark in his room because Derek couldn’t be bothered to open the curtains because _why_ and Stiles is quiet for once and the smooth gentle rhythm is so soothing Derek feels tears building behind his eyelids. He exhales and sinks lower into his bed, lets his muscles relax a tiny bit as Stiles rubs and rubs. His hand reaches the bottom of Derek’s shirt, pauses, then slowly, tentatively, moves under the hem to graze the skin of his lower back, just above his pajama bottoms. Derek swallows and tenses a little but doesn’t startle, and Stiles slides his hand under fully so his hand is spread open and warm and firm against the warm skin of Derek’s back.

“Our skin is our largest organ,” says Stiles and he doesn’t even say it like a dirty joke. “And touch can actually heal, did you know that?”

Derek nods.

“Well yeah, I know you wolfy dudes know that but us mere non-magical mortal beings can do it too, in our own special way.” Stiles is speaking quietly and he’s moving his hand up up up the middle of Derek’s back over the juts of his spine and his ribs up to the base of his neck and back down again. Derek sighs and shifts and tries very hard not to groan.

He wants to thank Stiles. He wants to tell him how much he appreciates this little experiment of his. He wants to pull him down into the bed beside him and curl around him and sleep for days. He wants, above all, to tell Stiles not to stop, but he doesn’t say anything, and, despite that, despite his inability to voice his longing, for some reason, Stiles understands. He doesn’t stop.

 

//

 

_**Foot**_

Because Stiles is clumsy and human he falls a lot. Today he’s fallen at Lacrosse practice and is sent home with a swollen, slightly twisted ankle. Scott informs Derek of this fact when Stiles fails to show up for the meeting that night and Derek oh so casually demands to know why he’s not there. Scott recounts the story of Stiles running and attempting to catch the ball and the ball knocking him on the head instead, followed by Stiles falling and rolling around in pain. The story is recounted with great glee and much laughter and Derek wants to strangle him right there in front of everyone. He doesn’t. What he does do, however, is wait until almost midnight before sliding into Stiles’ bedroom to find Stiles sprawled in bed with his right ankle elevated and wrapped, Advil and water on the bedside table

Stiles is dozing, not fully asleep, and Derek realizes with a pang that it’s because he’s hurting.

“You’re hurting,” Derek says and Stiles startles.

“Yeah. Painkillers aren’t doing much. Dad says he’ll take me to the doctor tomorrow if it’s not better.” He shifts again. “Scott told you?”

“He told everyone. Loudly and with much laughter.”

“Of course he did.” 

“Ass,” they both say at the same time and then laugh a little.

Stiles sighs and shifts in his bed. Derek sits down beside him and reaches out, a bit tentatively.

“Someone told me touch can be healing,” Derek says, his voice quiet and slightly teasing. Stiles rolls his eyes and huffs out a laugh.

“Someone very wise, I’m sure,” he says.

“Once in a while.” He says it like it hurts to admit and Stiles laughs a bit louder this time.

Derek steels himself and rubs softly and gently, letting his hands slide up and down Stiles’ ankle and Stiles tries to not squirm or flinch. Derek keeps moving his hands and finally, some of the pain starts to abate. Derek can tell, because Stiles stops moving like he’s hurting, but now he’s moving a little differently, hands drifting down to cover the front of his pajama bottoms and Derek’s hand slows as he realizes what is happening.

Stiles is aroused. He’s hard and leaking in his pajamas and Derek’s hand stutters and stops where it rests on the hard bone of Stiles’ ankle.

“Oh,” Derek says. He’s surprised. He’s not sure why he’s surprised but now that he looks in that general direction he can see that Stiles is aroused and trying in vain to cover it.

“Yeah,” Stiles says and his voice is a little breathless and that does things to Derek. He pulls his hands away and stands up and looks anywhere but at Stiles and his crotch.

“Well, that helped, I guess,” Derek says and licks his lips. Because they’re dry.

“Yeah,” Stiles says again. It seems to be all he’s capable of saying at the moment. There’s a little light in the room from the streetlamp outside and it spills across Stiles’ bed, his soft outline, the curve of his nose, his parted lips, the line of his dick pressing hard at his pajamas. “It helped.”

Derek nods stupidly and opens his mouth to say something but instead just nods again and leaves because anything he can think of saying doesn’t make any sense at all.

 

//

 

He continues to watch Stiles, like always. He watches him playfight with Scott and tussle with Isaac and Boyd, watches Erica scratch his head and Stiles moan appreciatively in response. He slings his arm over shoulders and jumps on people’s back, loud and laughing. He just touches _everyone_ a lot and Derek never really used to care at all.

Until now.

 

//

 

_**Mouth**_

“You have a pretty mouth,” Stiles says out of the blue and Derek almost drops his plate and all the food on it. Spaghetti and sauce and meat and bread slide side to side, wobbling, threatening to fall to the floor as he quickly readjusts and settles and takes a deep breath and sits between Stiles and Erica, who have deliberately, it seems, made room for him on the couch. Stiles said it quietly, almost to himself, but Derek and Erica both heard, of course, and probably everyone else in the room, but at the point he can’t embarrass himself any further. He pointedly ignores both of them, especially Erica’s smirk and even more especially Stiles’ scent of desire.

Stiles’ Jeep is broken, again, and for some reason no one offers to drive him home, so the task is left to Derek, who obliges with jangling nerves. He pulls up in front of the Stilinski home and doesn’t turn the engine off because that’s ridiculous and he waits for Stiles to get the hell out. Stiles doesn’t. Not right away, anyway. He’s uncharacteristically quiet though, looking out the window at his house, before turning back to Derek and studying the side of his face.

“Oh,” Stiles says, hand twitching. “You have a little something, there.” Stiles reaches out and before Derek can react or jerk away he puts a finger on Derek’s lip, at the corner of his mouth. “Sauce,” Stiles says and he wipes it away. Derek turns his head a bit.

Stiles is biting his lip and he’s staring at Derek’s mouth and he whispers, “Can I?”

And Derek is _nodding_. Why is he nodding? What’s wrong with him? But it’s too late because Stiles leans over and presses his mouth against Derek’s, so lightly he almost doesn’t feel it at all.

“Touch is a fundamental human need,” Stiles says, against his mouth, like he’s letting Derek in on a little secret.

“Ok,” Derek says.

“You’re getting better at it,” Stiles continues.

“Ok,” Derek says because he’ll apparently agree to anything Stiles says at this point. “At what?”

Stiles kisses him again, softly, lips sliding back and forth a bit, no tongue, just soft and quiet. “At letting me touch you.”

 

//

 

_**Dick**_

Stiles has apparently decided that lap sitting is now a thing he does.

Derek has seen him do it over the years, throwing himself down haphazardly onto anyone he chooses — both willing and otherwise — but he’s never done it to Derek before. He hasn’t dared to do it to Derek and for this Derek has been both endlessly grateful and endlessly disappointed.

Until now.

Now Derek is just sitting there quietly, reading a book, minding his own business while the Pack does their rowdy thing around him. It’s one of those grey and gloomy Sunday afternoons where everyone is wired and restless and will probably head out for a run soon but for now there’s a lot of yelling and joking and mostly good natured wrestling and Derek is content just to sit and listen and bask in the noise and affection and feel ok.

Until there’s a warm heavy body situated squarely on his lap. Derek makes a rather unattractive _oomph_ sound and he knows immediately who it is as every sense is immediately filled and quickly overwhelmed and he even closes his eyes for a moment in order to adjust to the weight and breadth and essence that is Stiles. Stiles is sitting on his lap sideways, long legs resting along the couch, not a care in the world and although Derek can sense the others looking and noticing and wondering, everyone has the good grace and intelligence to not make a big deal of it.

Except for Derek.

Because Stiles’ impressive ass is touching Derek’s highly receptive and interested dick, and even though it’s through several layers of clothing it’s still not enough to keep really inappropriate thoughts at bay. It’s not enough because Stiles is doing his usual squirm, trying to settle, trying to get comfortable and Derek is just about losing his mind as his dick gets harder in his pants. Stiles must notice. He has to notice but he doesn’t stop until he’s completely comfortable and then pushes down hard once more just for good measure.

“Stiles,” Derek hisses. Stiles just looks at him, wide-eyed innocence and he smiles a bit, a genuine smile, not his big sarcastic one and Derek’s heart just melts. Not literally, but it’s close, very close. Stiles leans against him a bit and Derek gives up on reading — or forming a G-rated thought — for the foreseeable future.

Because it’s Stiles and yeah.

Yeah.

 

//

 

Stiles is awake when Derek slides into his window that night. He and the Pack have run and run, run until they’re exhausted and exhilarated and it’s still not enough.

Derek knew it wouldn’t be enough.

He forces himself to wait as long as he can and then shakes his head and makes his decision.

He stands in Stiles’ bedroom in the dark besides Stiles’ bed and clenches his fists and looks down at Stiles and just says it.

“I want you to touch me,” Derek says. His voice sounds funny, rusty and rough.

Stiles’ eyes are big in the dark and he just nods. “Ok. I can do that.” He pauses. “Where?”

Derek takes a deep breath. “Everywhere.”

 

//

 

Stiles bed is almost too small for the both of them, their bodies and their movements, limbs crashing in their attempts to fit together.

Stiles’ hands wander up and down Derek’s body, skin against skin, sometimes lightly, sometimes with pressure, sometimes just the tips of his fingers light and tickling, sometimes his whole palms, broad and warm. Up Derek’s bare sides and down his back over shoulder blades and bumps of his spine. Up around his neck, jaw, up to the top of his face and down over his closed eyelids, his nose, over his lips and chin then down over his chest, stomach, down his arms and elbows and then his hands, fingers, over and over and over until Derek is saturated with Stiles’ touch.

“It’s not enough,” Derek says quietly. “It’s not enough.” He’s trembling and he’s shaking with the need for more and more and more. His skin is sucking it in and the need for _more_ frightens him. Stiles puts his forehead against his and nods.

“I know. You have a lot of catching up to do. But it will be. Eventually.” He presses his hands to the sides of Derek’s face and kisses him on the mouth, lightly. “I’ll make sure of it.”

 

//

 

Stiles straddles him and kisses his face and his neck and down his chest, each kiss followed by the stroking of his fingers, one after another, every spot a mouth and a hand and until Derek is quivering. They’re both naked now and all the skin is making Derek dizzy. He really hopes he doesn’t actually pass out at some point because that would send the exact wrong message to Stiles he thinks. Stiles' mouth and hands are at his stomach now, the hair that trails down and down, and then he’s at his dick, first his hands and then his mouth, slower now and softer, but steady and sure. There’s touching and licking and sucking and stroking until Derek’s hips are lifting from the bed and Stiles’ hands are stroking his trembling thighs and hips and knees and balls and Derek is coming, hard and with a shout and Stiles smiles against his slick skin, like he’s just so proud. Derek comes down and pulls Stiles up towards him, lets his own hands slide down Stiles’ sweaty skin, his ribs and hips and stomach to take his hard dick in his hand, stroking with his own trembling fingers while Stiles gasps against his neck, teeth pulling and scraping until he’s coming too, hips jerking, spilling everywhere.

And then it’s over. And Derek still wants more.

 

//

 

_**Hair**_

They lie spent and panting, side by side, bare arms and shoulders just brushing against one another.

Stiles rolls over on his side with effort and Derek feels his eyes on him, heavy with intent and want and resolve. Derek closes his own eyes and waits. A moment later he feels it, Stiles’ fingers on his head, in his slightly damp hair, touching, moving, along his scalp and then gently pulling his hair, over and over, over the top of his head and down around his ears, over to one side and then back again.

“It’s called skin hunger, touch hunger, whatever,” Stiles says. Derek can feel puffs of breath from his mouth against the side of his face. He keeps his eyes closed and just feels. “People who are touch hungry usually come across as being depressed.” Derek smiles a bit but it’s a sad smile. “They’re withdrawn, their voice intonation contour is flat.” Stiles’ fingers move and move and move. “You can literally go crazy from lack of it.”

Stiles moves again, his entire body, sliding over top of Derek and covering him, holding him down to the bed, the entire length of his body covering Derek’s and he never stops touching him.

“I’m not going to let you go crazy.”

 

//

 

His dad never stopped touching him, even when he got older. Never the consuming, encompassing affection of his mom, but always something, even if it was just a squeeze on his shoulder or a ruffle of hair. He doesn’t remember if his dad ever really hugged him, full body, but he doesn’t remember longing for it. His mom more than made up for it and when they died, when they were gone and all the easy, loving touches and affection stopped he remembers curling in on himself, crying like he’d never stop but then he did stop. One day he stopped crying and he stopped remembering and he forced himself to stop remembering what it was like to have someone he loved, who loved him, touch him every single day of his life.

 

//

 

“You’re not going to stop, right?” Derek says this very carefully, not looking in Stiles direction. They’re sitting in Stiles’ kitchen under too bright lights. Derek’s skin feels too thin and slick with sweat. Stiles is doing homework and humming under his breath and Derek is reading a newspaper for lack of something to do. He’s gone through it twice now, even the obituaries which he hates — but knowing who has died recently is always useful information, he supposes — and now he’s just sitting and watching Stiles as his pencil scratches over paper and his fingers — fingers! — tap the calculator with a concentration Derek finds both impressive and oddly erotic.

Stiles looks up, tilts his head, looks curious. His eyes are unfocused and lips slightly parted. 

“Stop what?” He looks down at his homework. He thinks that’s what Derek is talking about and he’s confused and now Derek is too embarrassed to go on. Derek shakes his head like nothing, forget it. He looks back down at the newspaper. _Gladys Corrigan. Age 95. Died peacefully surrounded by family. August O’Connell. 64. Passed suddenly from a heart attack._ He goes to turn the page with trembling fingers and Stiles covers his hand with his own. Fingers curl around his skin and push it down on the table, squeeze tighter. Derek looks at him.

“I’m not going to stop unless you want me to.”

Derek swallows hard. “I don’t,” he says. “Want you to.” He pauses. “Don’t stop.”

Stiles smiles.

“Ok,” he says.

Derek breathes. “But why? Why are you doing it? What are you getting out of it?” It suddenly seems very important to know but he’s not sure if he does at the same time. Stiles keeps holding on. His thumb is moving back and forth across Derek’s hand, small barely noticeable movements. Derek notices. “There has to be a reason.”

“You’ve got it all wrong,” Stiles says. His head is down and Derek can’t see his face. He kind of wants to see his face right now and he really kind of doesn’t, too. “Of course there was a reason. There was always a reason. But.”

Derek waits.

Stiles shrugs a bit. “I just like touching you.”

Derek laughs. “You like touching everyone.”

“No. I really don’t.” Stiles shakes his head because it’s not exactly what he means. “I like touching people yes. I’ve always been very huggy and touchy,” he says. “But it’s different. With you.” He looks up at last. His eyes are very clear and very wide.

He smiles then, gently. Then moves from his chair and comes to stand in front of Derek’s chair. He waits until Derek pushes back a bit before settling down in lap straddling him. Then he wraps his arms around Derek and holds on very tightly.

“It’s always been different with you.”

 

//

 

When Derek had nightmares as a kid his mom used to come to him, late at night and find him, wrap her arms around him and hug him tight, so tight.

“I’m here,” she would say, up against his ear when he sweated and cried and shivered in her grip. “I’m here. You’re here. It’s ok. Everything is ok. We’re here, together and we love each other so much.”

And Derek would nod and gasp and catch his breath and think yes yes yes. We’re here. You and me. We’re here.

We are here.

 

//

 

Sometimes, in the middle of the night when he can’t sleep, Derek pulls his warmest, softest blanket around himself, so very tight, and imagines it’s his mother’s arms, holding him.

Because no one else has ever held him like that.

 

//

 

Until now.

 

//


End file.
